


World's Finest Mini Issue: Happy Birthday

by WingFeathers



Series: World's Finest: The Missing Issues [11]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Class Issues, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Minor Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, POV Bruce Wayne, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 04:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16825261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingFeathers/pseuds/WingFeathers
Summary: Bruce hoped for an emergency to get him out of his birthday party.  He just didn’t want Dick to be the one in need of help.





	World's Finest Mini Issue: Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ijustwanttodestroy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustwanttodestroy/gifts).



> I did say the next issue was going to be the breakup, but then I got a request and was inspired to write a smol dad!Bruce + Superbat for the amazing ijustwanttodestroy's birthday. And it happens to fit chronologically right after the Fortress! So here's a little fluffy ficlet treat. Dick's vomiting on Bruce is only just, since he puked on Clark in the first work of the series, "County Fair". :)

Bruce looked down at his ginger ale on the rocks. He was starting to regret his decision to refrain from alcohol at events.

They’d been at the party for only an hour, but it felt like ten. This conversation alone felt like it had been going on for two hours, and he was putting all of his energy into acting like he was having even a marginal amount of fun.

It was his birthday. It was _supposed_ to be fun.

He’d tried to say that he didn’t want to do anything big. He was turning twenty-nine. That wasn’t an important year. It wasn’t an important age. There was no need for a public bash.

Somehow, _this_ had happened. Passed hors d’oeuvres. Floral centerpieces that could pay for an average Gothamite’s month’s rent each. A full open bar. A live jazz band. A guest list a mile long of people he didn’t care about—people he didn’t even care _for_ , mostly. He wasn’t even sure who to blame. The company. The Foundation. Someone who thought it would be brilliant to fête Bruce’s birthday while showing off the latest advances or causes or… something. He’d willed himself to forget.

At least it was for a good cause. At least it kept Gotham’s hospitality and event vendor businesses afloat.

And at least this woman wasn’t as bad as his last conversation partner. After that _lovely_ lady’s fourth subtly classist remark insulting Dick, Bruce had excused himself without so much as a smile. This woman now just didn’t get the hint that he was off the market.

“I just _love_ a man in a suit,” she was saying, reaching out to run her fingers along his sleeve. “Where do you get yours?”

“My _closet_ ,” he said, too over it to care.

She burst into laughter, practically falling on him in the process, and then straightened herself up and dabbed her knuckle at her eyeline, removing tears without smudging her perfectly-applied makeup.

“Your—closet,” she repeated, still laughing. “You’re _too_ funny, Bruce.”

He forced himself to smile and tipped back the ginger ale. He tuned his ears to listen for police sirens, news of a disaster, anything that would give him an excuse to leave.

“Say, where’s Mister Kent?” she asked. “Are you two still… an item?”

So she did know, and was just hoping it was over. Wishful thinking. That made more sense.

“Yes,” he said. “He’s just out of the country. Writing a long-form piece on refugees.”

“Oh, how _dreadful_ that must be for him. But of course, I’ve heard he’s a sweetheart. It must take a real saint to go to those kinds of places.”

“He is.”

“Not just good, though, huh? I’ve _seen_ the pictures.” She fanned herself lightly. “You sure are lucky.

“I am,” he said, smiling more genuinely this time. “Thank you.”

“I hope he knows how lucky _he_ is, too. Well, I’m sure he knows,” she babbled. “I can’t imagine—he’s not used to all of this, is he?”

Bruce’s hand tightened around his glass. “No, he’s not,” he said, teeth gritted in anticipation of the insinuations of gold-digging. As if she had any interest in Bruce Wayne beyond his bank account and good looks.

But then a finger tapped urgently on his elbow. Dick.

“Bruce, I don’ feel so good,” Dick said.

Bruce glanced down at the big blue puppy-dog eye look. Probably faking it. Not that Bruce could blame him, but suffering through this was part of the job.

“I’ll call Alfred,” he said. “He’ll take you home.”

“Can you come home too, though?” Dick begged. “I really—don’t…”

His words half-slurred, and his eyes drifted in and out of focus.

Bruce pushed his glass into the woman’s hands and turned, holding Dick’s forearms, all attention on his ward. Dick was a good actor, but this wasn’t faking.

“Hold on, Dickie. We’ll get you home.”

And then Dick wavered and lurched forward, throwing up all over Bruce’s shoes. And the woman’s shoes. She shrieked, and Bruce shot a glare in her direction.

“These were Alexander McQueen!”

“And he’s a sick _child_ ,” Bruce snapped. “I’ll replace your shoes, if they mean that much.”

Dick wavered in Bruce’s grip, and Bruce scooped him up.

“Excuse me,” said Bruce. He pulled out his phone and called Alfred while pushing through the crowd. Everyone had a million questions for him, and he didn’t care about any of them. Dick needed to get out.

By the time he stepped outside, Alfred was waiting with the car, doors open to the back.

“I’m going to need a blood panel,” Bruce ordered, putting Dick into the car. “Make sure he hasn’t been poisoned. Get the right antidote, if so.”

Alfred reached into his jacket pocket and handed Bruce a small vial. “This should help.”

“You—?” Bruce didn’t have time to waste on questioning Alfred. He roused Dick enough to get him to drink down the bottle, and slid in to the seat opposite Dick while Alfred got back into the driver’s seat.

Dick stirred and groaned before leaning forward against Bruce.

“Easy, there, Dickie.”

“Alf… givoo… antido’?”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. “The _antidote_?”

He turned and caught Alfred’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Did he _poison_ himself? And you _knew_?”

“He promised he would only feign sickness," Alfred said, casting a scolding look at Dick, "but I came prepared.”

Dick tugged on Bruce’s sleeve. “Only… a light… poison.”

“A _light_ poison? What is a _light_ poison?”

Dick mimicked his earlier vomiting posture. Bruce should’ve recoiled, but he didn’t. He leaned forward to rub a hand on Dick’s back. Nothing more came. Thankfully.

“You did this,” Bruce pressed. “To yourself.”

“For you,” Dick explained, sitting back up. “I… I feel better, now.”

“You feel less nauseated. You still lost nutrients.” He reached for the mini-fridge and pulled out an electrolyte drink. “Here, drink this.”

Dick nodded and accepted the drink, taking it down a few sips at a time.

“Care to explain how endangering yourself and ruining my shoes is _for me_?”

Dick pointed to a white box on one of the empty seats. “Happy birthday.”

Bruce eyed the package, Dick, the package, and then took it. He lifted up the lid to reveal an exact match for his pants, socks, and shoes.

“Nothing’s ruined,” said Dick, mumbling into the plastic bottle. “’Cept that party. Yay, ruined party.”

“You were trying to ruin the party?”

“Happy birthday,” Dick repeated.

Bruce dragged a palm across his face, unsure what to do with this revelation. He _had_ hoped for an emergency to get him out of the party. He just didn’t want Dick to be the one in need of help.

“You shouldn’t have—”

“Wait,” interrupted Dick. “There’s another present.”

He bent over and picked up another package—a bigger one, that Bruce should have noticed. He would have, if his son hadn’t been poisoned. As Bruce drew the package into the light, its blue wrapping paper shimmered, revealing crisp edges and black ribbon.

“Your favorite color,” Bruce observed. “You’re sure this is for me?”

“‘Scuse me not wanting to wrap a birthday present in _black_ and _dark shades of gray_.” Dick tapped the box. “Open.”

Bruce obeyed, tearing off the wrap and then opening the box underneath. “Jeans?”

“And.”

“And hiking socks. And… boots.” Bruce eyed the present. “For our next trip to the cabin?”

Dick grinned. “Yeah.”

“Thanks, chum.”

“Welcome.”

Bruce cocked his head to the side. “You know you didn’t have to get me _anything_ , right? Just coming to the party with me was enough.”

Dick waved his hand and drank down the rest of the electrolyte drink. Finally, he handed the empty bottle to Bruce and said, “I wanted to. But you have to change out of those.”

Bruce looked down at his shoes and the cuffs of his dress pants, which _did_ need to go.

“I’m not sure we should go on patrol after your stunt. Antidote or not, you need sustenance. Recovery.”

“No, no. Change into _that_ ,” Dick said, pointing to the gift box of new clothing.

“For the cabin.”

Dick nodded and pointed outside. Sure enough, they weren’t heading for Bristol. They were heading upstate.

“Gotham—”

“Is covered. And I’m already off school, so we’re not missing anything. You need a break. You’ve been gone a _lot_. With the thing with Penguin, and the WE trip, and then the League mission off-world…”

Bruce’s heart tightened. It wasn’t that he needed a break. Dick needed him to take one. To spend time with him. _You’ve been gone a lot_. God, and he’d _poisoned himself_ to make it happen.

“Okay,” Bruce said. “A long weekend upstate sounds perfect, Dick.”

A smile tugged at Dick’s lips. “Yeah?”

Bruce nodded.

“Good,” Dick said. “Because Clark _might_ kinda sorta already be there with a cake.”

“Was that not supposed to be a surprise?”

Dick flashed a sheepish grin and shrugged. “You don’t like surprises. So.”

Bruce laughed. “You’ll need something more than cake to eat after that stunt you pulled,” he warned. “Alfred, how are we on snacks?”

Alfred handed back a packed bag stuffed with a perfect mix of simple carbs, protein, and fruit.

“Perfect.”

“As you know, sir, failing to prepare is preparing to fail.”

Bruce handed the bag to Dick. “Eat.”

Dick didn’t need telling twice. He tore open a container of crackers and stuffed them in his mouth, washing it down with a second drink that he’d retrieved himself, now that he was feeling better.

“We’re gonna eat cake,” Dick explained between bites, “and watch all your favorite black and white movies, because I packed them all, and tomorrow we’ll go hiking and you can show off your survival skills like you like to do so much.”

“I do not _show off_ —”

Dick stopped eating and fixed Bruce with a challenging eye. “Do _too_.”

“Hnn.”

Dick nodded, satisfied, and continued replenishing the nutrients he’d lost.

“Thank you, Dick,” said Bruce. “Really.”

An hour later, they pulled up to the lakehouse cabin. Its windows glowed, casting warm light on the snowy surroundings. Good that Dick had told him about their surprise guest, or Bruce might have been ready for fight instead of a cheerful welcome.

“We’re here!” Dick announced, completely unnecessarily. “Get your coat on!”

Bruce obliged. As soon as Alfred unlocked the doors, Dick threw his open and began dragging Bruce out the far side.

“This is the least efficient way to get out of a car, Dick,” Bruce grumbled, but Dick kept tugging and whining at him, and eventually they stepped out onto the driveway.

It must have been more a distraction than anything, because Bruce finally looked up out of the car door to see Clark standing there, three suitcases stacked up in one arm, nothing protecting his core from the winter air other than a plaid flannel and a dish towel draped over one shoulder.

“I thought you were managing a refugee situation,” Bruce said, watching Dick run past them and into the house.

“Was,” Clark confirmed. “I’ll go back tomorrow. But tonight there’s cake.”

“Dick mentioned.”

Clark slipped his free hand into Bruce’s coat and around his waist, and then met him with a kiss that tasted of chocolate and raspberries. The cake, presumably.

“Happy birthday, Bruce.”


End file.
